


The Family We Choose

by xxCopyCatxx



Series: White Collar, Blue Wings [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, White Collar, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Drama, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Lots of drama, Neal Caffrey is Dick Grayson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2018-12-30 23:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12119943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxCopyCatxx/pseuds/xxCopyCatxx
Summary: Neal Caffrey has one big secret: He doesn't exist.A series of One-Shots revolving around the identities of Dick Grayson and the persons that matter to him.





	1. Still Holding On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's just another ordinary day in prison for Neal Caffrey, Forger, Thief and Con-Man extraordinaire - until a blast from the past hits his cell...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to you, Quinis, for your amazing fics. They inspired me in the first place. Also, you might recognize the setting from over tumblr. Thanks for the advice and it was fun chatting with you! :)

There’s music flouting through the air, a classy jazz piece, and two cells further down, there are screams of an argument gone physical. But the wardens are already on it, so Neal just hums along to the song and keeps scribbling on the sketch he’s been working on. The charcoal scraps over the paper and the forms emerge almost on their own, as if the faces had been there all along, only hidden from any other eye but his. He doesn’t have a model, but he saw Big Frank’s family once on a visit and thanks to years of vigorous training, he materializes them before his mind’s eye as he draws. At heart he is still Dick Grayson and a bat first, a forger, alleged thief, confidence man et cetera second and hasn’t allowed his other skills to dull.

So while he may have ditched the back and blues, part of him still itches to help the Team and League on Apokalyps. But he is here, most of the time behind bars and carefully steering Luthor against Intergang while loosely supervising Earth’s remaining heroes.

As he is working on the picture and completing his reports for whenever Batman returns or he needs to revise them, the former vigilante allows his thoughts to drift.- Until there’s a sudden gust of wind that causes his carefully coded notes and the almost-done family portrait the inmate from next door commissioned to scatter through the cell. A yellow-red blur, which in itself would be startling enough in its suddenness – and courses his heart to forget beating for a moment before it resumes its duty double-time. The familiarity of that blur is painful, tinged with memories. Tears sting in his eyes and Neal, mostly Dick at the moment, blinks them away, fights to regain his breath and his composure. He stills his trembling hands and only notices the piece of paper in his numb fingers as it slips his grasp and glides into his lap. It’s cardboard with red print on one side and fatty stains on the other – as well as letters in a familiar flighty writing.

 _I’m fine_ , it says. _Can you get out and meet?_ _Artemis says Hi_

He blinks, for a moment unseeing. It takes him painfully long to read the short note – he’s cased buildings and came up with plans of attacks faster than that - and even longer to understand it, stomach the blow of hope that comes with it. And just like that, Neal Caffrey is gone and Dick Grayson is back. And if he can trust his eyes, his investigative skills… Then again, he is a bit rusty and not even close to the World’s Greatest Detective but surely-?  The list of Dick’s enemies is long, with big enough players on it to pull a deception like this off. Luther is right at the top of that list, with the resources, a grudge against both the con-man and the vigilante and the brains to make the connection between Dick’s two personas. No, while he doesn’t dare hope he also doesn’t have the heart to think anything else but that his friend is alive.

Dick decides to take a leap of faith. He isn’t a Flying Grayson for nothing and as of now he has survived any jump, any fall, net or without: Wally West is back. The valiant hero who sacrificed his life to save earth – his oldest, closest friend. He is back.

Dick takes a deep breath and becomes Neal Caffrey again, just long enough to walk the con-man’s pretty behind out of prison. Getting out of isn’t that much of a challenge anyway, right? He does that on a regular basis, when his small cell begins to feel tiny and he’s itching for the wind in his face. Only this time, Dick is in a hurry. He may be less of a mastermind than Bruce, but he is still Bat enough and values `prep time´.

He needs a plan.

Smoothing out his coverall, he gets up from the cheap plastic chair and distractedly picks at the scattered notes, to at least create a semblance of order and take the ones he can’t leave behind. Among them he finds a guard’s magnetic card and almost can’t contain the grin forming on his face. Seems the note, which he now recognizes was written on a ripped-off piece of pizza box, wasn’t Wally’s only gift. He’s got a plan now.

Dick mouths along to the music: “ _Hold on, I’m coming_ indeed”, and adds under his breath, “Holy fitting lyrics, Batman.” He stops the player and backs the cassette up, before pocketing it as well as the security card and his notes. In a calm stride, he drops the portrait off he worked on earlier and Caffrey-swaggers towards the toilets, where he hits his secret stash. If he hurries, he can make it out at the change of shift. Using the adhesive-remover, he gets rid of his beard, his answer to Superman’s glasses. His skin itches, but he isn’t able to grow more than a bit of stubble himself and facial hair is a classic way to hide an alternate identity. With the surplus uniform and slicked back hair none of his cellmates would recognize him. Not that they dare meet his eyes, when he is channeling tall, dark and intimidating.

The escape goes off without a hitch and as Dick jacks a truck to drive off, his good spirits are only slightly dampened by the fact he just ended Neal Caffrey’s existence. The moment he walked out, he burned that identity for good. Bruce would be livid but hopefully secretly understanding and Dick would survive the scolding. Neal had successfully weaseled himself into Luthor’s oh so legit businesses, not to mention the rest of the general underworld. But Neal had also made a few honest friends, became _real_ and still he can’t mourn for the man he’s lived the past years as. Because Wally was – is his friend and Dick would sacrifice more than one life to see the speedster again and know him safe.

Dick finally can’t contain his nerves any longer. The window is down and his fingers thrum wildly, as he steers the cars at a reasonable enough speed to not draw attention. Then he sees the streak of color in the back mirror closing up to him and the last bit of his composure is gone. He feels like he suddenly developed a metagene and only the seatbelt stops him from flying off and bursting through the ceiling. And while he feels quite the contrary, the laws of physics still apply to him and he slows the car and stops in a cramped alley.

He barely manages to unbuckle and get out the car, before the speedster catches up and envelopes him in a tight hug. With the speed Wally was going at, it feels like being hit by a super, but Dick’s stomached worse and is way too whelmed on endorphins to feel any pain.

For a long moment, the usually so loquacious Boy Wonder is completely lost for words and simply leans into the touch.

Wally clears his throat. “So, just wanted to tell you I’m not dead - yet. Please don’t squish me?”

Dick laughs and is smiling so hard his cheeks start to hurt and maybe he is also holding on too tight. Hesitantly and with a final slap on his friend’s shoulder he lets go.

“Sorry,” he croaks and tries to even his voice. “It’s good to have you back.”

“Been one hell of a ride”, Wally admits and grins. “But I could say the same about you and the Team. The Wal-Man’s gone for, what-”

Dick winces. “Four whole years.”

“And now Luthor is suddenly a saint and you the convict?”

“I am – was undercover. And I just let myself out of prison and really don’t like my odds against both the FBI and the Marshals. We need to talk, but right now is not a good time.”

“Dude, I’m a _speedster_! Time is basically my superpower. Ditch the car and I’ll give you a ride.”

Just like old times – except: “You just came back from the dead. Are you sure you can run with that much dead weight?”  
Wally grins. “I’ve never felt better. Have a lot of excess energy itching under my skin.” And just to prove it, Kid Flash vibrates right through the car’s open door.

Dick gapes. “Since when…?”

“I’ll tell you later. You still have a safe house around here?”

Dick takes a second to think. “Most of them got burned with Caffrey. There’s one M’gann used to crash at, when she was my contact and posing as my girlfriend, long story … I don’t know if the FBI has already made the connection, but it is the nearest one, in Manhattan.”

Without further ado, Wally sweeps Dick up bridal style. He winks. “Comfy?”

Dick snorts. “Shut up, Kid Mouth.”

And in a blur of color and ringing laughter they take off.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this wasn't much, but I just wanted to finally write something Dick is Neal myself. This was harder to write than I feel comfortable to admit, especially since I've never really written in English before. If there are grievous errors, please let me know? I still have a bunch of ideas to further the universe and a few scenes in my head, maybe I'll add them later.


	2. A Vigilante By Any Other Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fresh out of prison, Neal can't exactly wear his armor for his day job with the FBI, which leads to him shopping in a certain thrift store - meeting a certain widow.

„Why don’t you join me for a walk? It’s only a few blocks and such shame Byron’s old suits are merely gathering dust these days. I’d be happy to give them to someone who appreciates them – and fills them so dashingly.” The woman’s eyes crinkle and the glint in her eyes is uncannily reminiscent of Selina, though Neal hides his apprehensiveness behind an especially charming smile. He catches himself being actually tempted – the lady practically offers herself as a mark: A kind, trusting widow with deep pockets. But she is smart, that he can tell from the way she scanned the room when she entered. He knows a hook when he sees it and makes half an effort to steer clear. What she has to offer is obvious – but what could she gain from him? Her body language tells him she isn’t with the others outside, judging from the way she occasionally glances back, instinct telling her she is being watched.  
“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” he declines politely, too intrigued to offer up more vigor. “I really can’t impose on you like that.”  
“Please, I insist.” The woman’s expression radiates honesty, and maybe that’s just what she is: Nothing more than a decent human being with a heart. That or she is actually dangerous, but there’s nothing wrong with dangerous. Dick had always had a penchant for that.  
So Neal gives in, and introduces himself.

June Ellington, as it turns out, is a sparkling conversationalist with sharp wit and good humor. In the short time they walk together, Neal learns June owns a dog and has two granddaughters and in return he tells her about the more legal jobs he’s had so far: Bartender, police officer, personal assistant, accountant… The latter may have been his covers for long cons, but he still has an anecdote or two to tell.  
Even though he gets to know June better, she still feels like an unknown variable to him. Gentle and kind-hearted at first glance but underneath a temperament of steel and something else that feels familiar but he can’t quite put his finger on. Which is why, when June leans into his personal space with a warm chuckle, Neal instinctively checks his pockets and Dick readies his stance.  
Still chuckling, she whispers under her breath: “I believe you’ve got yourself a tail.” June subtly cocks her head, towards the man in the leather jacket who casually leans against a wall they just passed, nursing a cigarette and keeping his gaze down.  
“I noticed.” The former Boy Wonder hides behind a smile again, slightly annoyed and with a bit of teeth in it. He’s been aware of the man – as well as the lady arguing on the phone with the telltale dent of a firearm at her leg, and the man who had entered the thrift-store shortly before him and had been skimming way too intently through tasteless shirts. They had been following him since Peter dropped him off at the hotel and Neal let them, to figure out who sent the hired muscle after him. It seems they are getting bolder now, though, and once they notice their cover is blown they could move any moment, innocents be damned.  
Caffrey is notorious for running and slipping away. Running would be the thing to do, to not compromise the mission, to keep the cover intact. For Batman, the mission comes first. But he is not Batman; he is Dick, and Neal and Nightwing – different names, different suits on one and the same person: Which means he definitely can’t risk June or anyone else getting hurt. He squares his shoulders and comes to a stop.  
“I think you better go ahead on your own. It was nice meeting you –“  
“Hush”, she interrupts him fiercely. “I’ll let you know I am able to handle myself”, June informs him, in a voice too calm for a civilian.  
“And I wouldn’t doubt that for a second – but these guys are my business, so please let me take care of them on my own.”  
June measures him with a sharp gaze. “Fine,” she gives in. “Although I do carry a taser, should you change your mind.”  
“Thank you.”  
June pulls him into a quick, surprisingly warm hug. “Be careful.”  
_Never_ , Robin would tell his friends with a carefree grin. But for June he just nods sincerely, before turning around and walking the street down in the opposite direction.

Neal dodges the other pedestrians and presses directly towards the man with the cigarette, who starts to fidget and almost drops the butt from his hands. His stalker is apparently not a professional: Which is good news, because no one in their right mind would sick an amateur on Nightwing. Neal grabs the man’s wrists and simply drags the guy into the next dead-end alley.  
“Evenin’, Mister,” he quips and presses the sweating crook up against the wall. “I’m afraid I didn’t get your name. Care to tell me who you are and whom you work for?” Not that Neal expects an answer, but he always makes a point to ask questions first, whop ass later.  
The gangster gapes like a fish, before he remembers he is paid to look big and scary. “Fuck you, Dinardo.” Neal casually dodges the spit aimed at his face and suppresses a flash of triumph. Ah, the benefits of multiple names and identities. His new friend is completely oblivious to the fact Freddie Dinardo only existed to the Familia.  
But then the gangster regains his composure and starts kicking, which forces Neal to let go. He jumps out of reach, and movement at the edge of his vision tells him they are no longer alone in the alley. A soft klick is the only warning he gets, a safety being flipped off.  
A shot pierces the air and the vigilante dives to the ground, lunges towards the shooter, to close the distance. Someone nearby is screaming in fear. Idiots didn’t even bother with a silencer! More bullets spray and Neal takes to the wall, keeps moving. He reaches for the bars of a fire escape, changes his direction with a flip and comes down hard. His shoes connect with the shooter’s chest and the man goes down. Neal rolls of, twisting the hand holding the gun with the momentum. The wrist pops and with a scream his assailant lets go of the gun. A kick and the firearm slides out of range, under a dumpster. It’s the bearded man from the thrift-store, a big ugly scar square across his face. The guy screams bloody murder and there’s a knife in his left hand. Neal twists away, even if it means he can’t dodge the fist of the cigarette man, who chooses this very moment to join the fight. Neal knows how to take a punch, and moves with the impact, minimizes the strain on his neck, retreats with a cartwheel. His eye will be bruised tomorrow, but still better than a stab wound in the abdomen.  
A few feet divide Neal from the mobsters and he gives them the opportunity to move first. The more inexperienced of the two takes it. He moves in for another punch the amateur he is, and Neal grabs the hand, twists it and kicks the guy in the face, foot solidly connecting with a now broken jaw. Poor idiot will stay down for a while. Movement behind him, and the vigilante flips over the incoming knife and its wielder, bringing his opponent down with a kick to the back of their knees. An elbow to the neck sends the guy to sleep and the knife clatters noisily to the ground. – Almost loud enough to drown out the telltale sound of another gun being cocked.  
“Freeze,” a high pitched voice orders and Neal lifts his hands, slowly turning around. The gun is trained straight on his chest, the lady’s finger firmly on the trigger and Neal wishes for his bulletproof armor, or at least one of his Wing-Dings.  
“Move and I’ll shoot.” From her looks, she actually will without hesitation.  
“Vittoria”, he acknowledges her. “You look good.”  
“No thanks to you, bastard.” The woman’s dark skinned cheeks are flushed red, the bottomless fury and hatred of a woman scorned simmering in her eyes. At least now he knows who had him followed.  
Neal remembers her father, Lorenzo Santoro. He had weaseled his way into the man’s operation as Freddie Dinardo. Santoro’s family was not as big as the competition, but with a new shipment of weapons willing to prove his strength and go in guns blazing. Neal had found the weapons, dug out the paper trail and gathered as much evidence as he could. It had helped, of course, that Vittoria had been sweet on him and invited him to the Don’s table, giving him access to everything. Then Neal left, returning to his homely little cell and Organized Crime had found Santoro and his men giftwrapped for them. Vittoria however had gotten away and apparently taken up what little her father had left behind. Which lead to the both of them in a backstreet and him at gunpoint.  
Neal weights his options: The alley is narrow, with little room to move. If he is lucky, he can get behind the dumpster but he doubts he is fast enough to avoid a bullet all together. Subtly he readies himself to dive – when a familiar silhouette appears behind Signorina Santoro, as silent on her heels as Batgirl. It’s June, who took off her white scarf and whirls it whip like in a movement impossible to pull off on first try around the trigger hand, pushing it up and changing the trajectory of the bullet so it harmlessly bites into the brick wall one floor higher. Neal snatches the knife and sprints to close the distance but before he is even halfway there, electricity crackles, and Vittoria falls to the ground groaning, her muscles jerking.  
“You’re welcome”, June smiles, retrieving her scarf.  
“Thank you for the assistance. Nice move”, Neal compliments.  
“Nice moves, yourself”, June whistles. “Aren’t many Mystery Men around without power these days.”  
“Sorry…?  
“You may look different in all black, but certainly move the same. Don’t worry – I wore a costume once myself. I was no Liberty Belle or Phantom Lady, but our kind has to stick together.”  
Neal is lost for words. June a former vigilante? That’d certainly explain a lot.  
A few blocks away, police sirens start blasting and June laughs: “Still interested in those suits? Maybe a dance or two? Christ, I missed this!”


	3. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long day at work, Neal receives a surprising call...

Neal’s shuffling a back of groceries in his arms, and wishes for a more stable bag. Or maybe an extra hand. Or telekinesis. The tear in the paper bag started off as a wrinkle, but now the asparagus and mushrooms he bought are ganging up on him and trying to break free. In itself a sentiment he can sympathize with; circus blood and a two mile radius don’t mix well - but he invited June to join him for dinner tonight and he doesn’t want to disappoint the older lady. He already had the perfect Pinot and the chicken at home and picked the last ingredients up on his way from work, definitely underestimating his charge. And of course, someone decided _now_ is a good time to call him. His phone vibrates in his pocket and Neal spitefully contemplates to ignore it, when he notices something off. He doesn’t feel it at first through the fabric of his jacket, but the rhythm is strange, uneven. It’s a mixture of shorter and longer buzzes – and that’s Morse code, he realizes. Bruce made sure he could decode it in his sleep. BAT, his phone vibrates again and suddenly feels as if it is burning through his pocket.

Without a second thought, he drops the bag and doesn’t bother stopping the mushrooms that finally topple to the ground and roll down the street. With a cursory quick glance around, Neal picks up his phone – even if it is not actually ringing and not displaying a call, but only a rotating eye. It’s Delphi, an extension of the Batcomputer’s programming Barb and him created to supervise and contact family and allies in cases of emergency.

“Yes?” He barely hides the nervous strain in his voice. His unhelpful mind lists all the things that could warrant this call, produces images of exploding warehouses, another brother ripped from him.

“This is Oracle,” a synthesized voice greets him.

“Birdwatcher,” Neal identifies himself tersely. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything’s fine!,” she immediately relieves his worries. There’s a warm laugh – human, no longer contorted and it does more to calm him down than her earlier assurance: There’s no sign of pain or grieving in her voice and apparently enough time for unprofessionalism. “Sorry for startling you.”

Neal consciously lets his muscles relax and starts picking up the dropped vegetables with his free hand. “So you hacked my phone because you missed my charming voice?,” he teases.

Barb snorts on the other end of the line. “Don’t flatter yourself. No, I actually got good news for once:  Braniac’s done for and our team touched down at the Watchtower. A few bruises and a bit of mind-control, but everyone’s fine or mostly recovered already. B just checked out and took the Zeta – to New York.”

Bruce’s stopping by to … visit? Neal decides not to get ahead of himself. “We have a local situation?”

He hears typing in the background, as Barb double-checks. “Everything’s calm. You know he missed you.”

Of course he knows, even though Bruce keeps his emotions firmly in check and so rarely voices them. Dick believes his mentor, if anything, cares too much instead of too little, contrary to what people and maybe even Bruce himself think – although that’s all too easy to forget, when the Batman is on a Mission. Bruce’s been busy these past months and Neal made a point to stay in New York and honor his new team’s reluctant trust, even though he could in fact loose the anklet. Neal feels elated, deeply glad at the prospect of finally spending time with his family again, even more so far away from the public, away from the duties of patrol and heroism.

 “Thanks for the heads-up,” he smiles into the phone. Which Barb can’t see, of course, except maybe she can?

“Sure, you’re welcome. Call me if you need anything else.”

Neal makes sure the smug grin carries into his voice: “Anything at all?” If she were next to him, she’d definitely hit him. Luckily, she’s far away in Gotham right now.

On the other end of the line he hears a stifled snort. “Shut it, Idiot Wonder – Oracle out.”

There’s a klick as the connection ends and Neal’s screen turns back to normal. He pockets the phone, grabs his bag and falls into a jog, to rush home. Excerpt halfway there, ecstasy starts turning into worry. He doesn’t diminish his tempo, but is getting increasingly antsy. The Batman was never a fan of Neal Caffrey nor of the way Dick grew into and enjoyed the persona. What if Bruce still doesn’t approve – or worse, decides to call him back to Gotham, away from Mozzie and Peter and June, from El, Diana and Jones? Dick fears his father will be disappointed in him, fears the silence and disdain that is worse than the harshest batglare.

With heavy heart Neal soldiers on and plasters a smile on his face, before he opens the front door to the mansion. June’s laughter and Bruce’s polite baritone are spilling from the lounge, so he forces himself to push his qualms to the back of his mind. Neal leaves the groceries and his hat at the feet of the stairs and follows the sound of conversation, to find the two of them amicable over a cup of coffee.

 “Neal!” June gets up the moment she sees him, enveloping him in a greeting hug. “You didn’t tell me you were expecting a friend!” Privately, she adds under her breath: “He _is_ a friend, isn’t he?”

Neal nods his thanks: “I didn’t – but it’s a pleasant surprise. Thank you for stepping in.”

“You’re welcome.” With that, June makes her excuses to give Bruce and Dick some privacy. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Thomas.”

Bruce smiles fondly in response, and Dick knows his father good enough to discern real from fake expressions. He grasps the opportunity, to renew his invite to June.

“Are you still up for dinner later? If you don’t mind the additional company, that is.” Even if his cooking won’t ever measure up to Alfred’s, he wants to savor a meal with the people he cares about and always buys his supplies in excess anyway, in case Mozzie or Peter shows up.

Bruce cocks an eyebrow, but doesn’t object and June promises to join them in a while, before she takes her leave.

 

Now Dick and Bruce are alone, and the distance between them starts to feel palpable, like a solid wall. Goodness knows Bruce won’t be the first to initiate contact, so Dick closes in, slow enough for his mentor to dodge and embraces him tightly. Gradually, Bruce’s taut muscles relax and the man softens into the hug, to finally answer it with a squeeze to his son’s shoulder.

“You look good,” Bruce proudly scans him over, eyes raking down the slim suit with a hint of a smile. “Sorry I didn’t call ahead.”

“You know you’re always welcome,” Dick chides playfully. “Besides, BG gave me a bit of warning.”

“Of course she did.”  
Dick clears his throat. There’s so much to talk about, but not down here where the sound of their conversation caries through the whole house. “Want to see my apartment upstairs? I can show you around and start preparations.”

“Dinner, you mentioned? I’m surprised you cook.”

“Yeah, laugh it up, B. I _do_ eat more than canned food and cereal.” Of course, there’s still a pack of the latter sitting on his table right now, but that’s beside the point.

Picking the bag back up, he tosses Bruce his keys and beckons him to follow up stairs up to the fourth floor.

Once inside his apartment, Dick loads the groceries off in the kitchenette and even with his back turned knows Bruce is scanning the room and its strategical points of interest. Dick leaves him to it, disappears for a moment to change into something a little more casual and returns unhurried with two glasses and a bottle of water. He finds his mentor scrutinizing the painting Neal is currently working on, whenever he needs to quiet his thoughts, an unfinished copy of Veermer’s Milkmaid.

“Nice brushwork.”

“Just practice”, he deflects before Bruce has the chance to even ask or maybe notice any discrepancies and amend his praise. Dick places the drinks on the coffee table and flips down on his couch.

 “So … how was space?”

Bruce settles down next to him and unsubtly evades the question: “How is your work with the FBI?” Which is Bat for _I don’t want to talk about it_ , but the night is still young.

So Dick humors his father and gladly launches into recollecting his adventures with Peter and the other agents. And maybe he leans a little closer while doing so and Bruce lets him.

 


	4. Rooftop Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a bad day at the Bureau and an evening that feels like it can only get worse - takes a miraculous turn for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for coarse language, awful amounts of sap and a slight suspension of disbelief? I couldn't help myself and more people kept showing up and the plot kind of ran away on its own. I like it though and hope, so will you.

The case had been a disaster, heavy on the dis. Two weeks of investigation came to a dramatic halt, with their informant taken out by an unknown shooter and the members of the trafficking ring either dead or on the run. On top of that, Jones ended up in hospital with a clean shot through the shoulder and some bruises – it’s bad, but they still are lucky none of their team got hit worse. Peter had been in a reasonably foul mood all day, buried to the neck in paper work and department arguments and Neal helped out where he could – throwing himself into work to keep busy. Of course he is aware he did what he could and bears no fault for things going south, but the guilt’s lying heavily on his shoulders and hindsight’s a dick – and he should know, because that’s his name. If only he had seen the signs of another party sooner, did one more shift on the roof tops or at least stepped in today, somehow. He is no longer wearing a big target on his chest, but it’s still his responsibly to save people. Even criminals deserve to be tried, not be put down – be killed like that.

“Neal?” Peter approaches Neal’s desk, and interrupts the former vigilante’s brooding.

Neal catches his own stare in the reflection of his monitor and replaces it with a subdued smile, before he looks up.

“Yeah?”

“Let’s head home for today.” Then Peter pauses, scanning his CI’s features. “You okay?”

“Long day”, Neal lies weakly but his countenance is passable enough that Peter doesn’t call him out on it. Besides, it really _is_ getting late.

“You want to join El and me for dinner?”

Dinner will take up valuable time he doesn’t have if he actually wants to catch that shooter. “Sorry, I need to hit it early tonight.” As if he ever does, and Peter probably suspects as much.

“You’re not taking any jobs on the side?”

“Peter!” Neal whisks a scandalized look on his face, but really isn’t offended. At this point, the agent is more likely mocking than interrogating him.

“Take-out then.” And before he gets the opportunity to object, Peter continues, waving his cellphone: “My wife insists,” which effectively ends that argument. Neal actually enjoys El’s company and maybe he can even relax for a short while before patrol – also, he doesn’t want to draw the woman’s ire.

 

And so Peter and he leave a small Korean shop ten minutes later with Styrofoam boxes filled with fatty goodness and make their way through the still crowded streets towards Peter’s car. The sun is already down and it would be dark, if not for the street lights and headlights of the passing vehicles and Neal is starting to get restless.  At this time of day – or rather, night – he usually sheds the suit and tie and goes for triple-weave Kevlar instead. He tries to hide it, even if he is scanning his surroundings more intently, expanding his awareness into the night out of pure habit – which is how he notices a movement on the other side of the street that alarms him. It’s more a vague feeling against the blinding lights, but something about that man walking there is oddly familiar and surreal all the same. The auburn hair, the confident gait, the posture Dick helped train and shoulders broader still than he remembers…

As impossible as it sounds: Dick would recognize his family anywhere, and the man over there is the spitting image of his little brother. And it is real, this time. Not the cheerful youth lifting the Batmobile’s tires or the mangled boy he died, who haunted him for years; never really stopped to. Not just his brother’s voice, which he hasn’t imagined to hear in months he realizes now, accompanied by a wave of shame and aching gladness.  
No mirage of the past, but a living, breathing man.

“Jason”, Dick gasps, his lungs burning with the breath he unconsciously held. He forcefully calms himself, breathes in a firm pattern. He needs to be rational – and the man who looks like his brother is swept away by the crowd on the sideway, to disappear into the abyss of New York City again. Rationality goes out of the window.

He thrusts the bag he carries onto Peter.

“I’m sorry. I’m not running!,” he promises hastily, before doing exactly that and breaking away. “Jason!” And the man who looks like Jason unmistakably flinches, reacting to the name. Dick falls into a breakneck sprint, dodges traffic and flips, almost flies over the cars he can’t evade.

Somewhere behind him, Peter is calling his name, ordering him to wait, but it drowns in the sound of screeching wheels and honking horns. At least the agent doesn’t attempt to follow him, too smart to tail through the chaos of traffic. Neal can explain later how he can run and jump like that: Parkour, maybe. It wouldn’t be far-fetched for a master thief like him to also master the art of running away in style. He’d explain why he is running and jumping in the first place, but only a few feet are dividing him from his brother now, so Dick is using all his reserves, using his last breath to plead: “Jay!”

The man turns around, recognition flickering in his blue eyes before being replaced by a much darker emotion. He is taller now than Dick, taller than before he died.

“Fuck off!” Definitely-Jason snarls viciously, voice deeper and hoarser than Dick remembers, the sound of it tearing right through his heart.

“Wha-“ The question dies on Dick’s tongue, because he himself does not know what exactly he wants to ask, or in which order. Before he gets to clear his mind however, Jason starts running. Dick grasps for his shoulder out of instinct, but Jason dodges. He slips into an ally and jumps up at a fire escape staircase. Dick doesn’t reach the stairs quite as easily, bounces of the house’s wall to keep up and follow to the higher floors, up to the roof. In the time it takes him to get up there, Jason is already running north, jumping over the gaps between buildings. Jason is fast, but Dick spent the nights on these rooftops, made New York his new home town and knows every crook and cranny. Neal’s anklet starts flashing warningly but he ignores it, focused on chasing his brother. He is gaining, slowly, yard by yard.

 

And then Jason turns, gun in his hand, aiming dead center.

“I said leave me the fuck alone.”

There’s so much anger and bitterness in that face, the soft lines all hard angles now and Dick’s heart bleeds. He stops in his tracks and gawks. The look in his brothers eye’s is cold and hard as steel, and Dick starts to think. Maybe this isn’t the Jason he knew. As one half of the Dynamic Duo and member of the Team Dick encountered a lot of straight out weird stuff: Clones of all sorts, hypnotic suggestions or simple mind-control, alien tech and magic created look-alikes and chemicals, heck, even plants able to turn a mind into mush. Although this Jason definitively still has that same mouth on him, so maybe he is the result of another one of Luthor’s sick experiments. Dick wouldn’t put it past the man to find a way and resurrect the dead, just to control them.

“It’s me, little wing!” Dick tries to get through to his brother.

“Big whoop, Dickhead – And that gives you, what? The right to just barge into my life? What are you even doing here instead of sucking up to Daddy Bats in Gotham?"

Dick's heart breaks at the harsh words. "You are alive," he brings out tentatively; almost afraid to say it aloud in case it makes the dream collapse like a poked bubble. Jason doesn’t disappear though, just stands there with his gun still trained at Dick and radiating something between bitterness and hatred.

“No thanks to you”, Jason spits. Obviously, he is fine and not in the least bothered by his brother’s years of grief, what that revelation might mean to him now and Dick feels his own hackles rise in response. He gives in to his emotions and lets his anger flow free. 

“What right I have to barge into your life?,” Dick echoes loudly, even if his voice cracks at the end. “You are my little brother! I mourned you, and I am so sorry what happened to you. Because I really wished that could have been me in the uniform that day, that I’d been able to protect you. I failed you and still hate myself for that. And you, somehow, are back – you are alive and don’t even bother to give a call? No, I have to stumble across you by goddamn accident! How long would you let us believe you still are dead? For how long did you?”

“That’s none of your damn business. You can stick your brother bullshit where it belongs because you sure didn’t miss me enough to not replace me immediately with the next best kid. You forgot me and simply moved on. Was my body even cold by then?”

“Do you really think Tim ever replaced you? No one ever could, not to me, not to the Team or Bruce. You didn’t see him, not like I did, but Bruce … he wasn’t the same after. And I couldn’t help him. He fell and I no longer could reach him.” Not that he had had the strength to carry anyone through the grief, not even himself let alone Bruce. It was like watching his parents plunge into darkness all over again and him unable to do anything but watch. But Dick doesn’t say that, doesn’t allow that sentiment of pure helplessness to rise again. “But Tim could, and no one invited him. He figured everything, everyone out and forced himself onto Bruce, to pull him back up. Because he is a decent human being. And he cares about people – unlike you, apparently.”

Jason bristles at the low blow. “Because _you_ are just the epitome of caring: You don’t care shit about me or anyone really.  Else you would have done _something_ by now. Changed anything at all. But that monster’s still out there, hurting other people. I should have been the last! My death should at least have _mattered_!”

The hand holding the gun shakes in trembles, but Jason stubbornly holds his aim. The fuming mask starts to slip and Dick can see the hurt underneath the rage, the deep feeling of betrayal that mirrors his own all too much. Dick’s anger drains out of him that very instant, leaving only a numbly aching pain in his chest.

He ignores the weapon between them and simply throws himself at his brother, to hug him and hold on for his life, to never again let go. Because of course Jason matters, both in life and death and now life again and maybe if Dick can only squeeze him hard enough, his brother will _know_.

The moment he embraces Jason however, his little brother reacts instantaneously. His knee jumps up, hitting Dick in the groin, and the whipping gun almost knocks out his teeth.

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” Jason seethes.

Dick stumbles back, fighting to keep his balance and rubbing his bruising jaw. “Jay”, he croaks when he finally regains his voice. There’s so much he wants and needs to say, he just doesn’t know how.

That Jason deserved a better, happier life and not to die, and he himself is just as much to blame as the Joker, for not being there, for abandoning his little brother, for passing on the mantle of Robin to him. He desperately wants his brother to know all this, and how glad he is to see him standing before him, to hear his voice again and how angry at the world to see him so hard, to see him so broken. He settles on the easiest: “I’m sorry.”

“Fat lot of good that does. I don’t need your pity.”

It’s not pity, and Jason needs to know that. Dick carefully chooses his words: “I’m sorry, I didn’t avenge you.” He nervously licks his dry lips. “I tried, I almost did. I found the Joker, and I beat him with my bare hands, again and again, as if that would bring you back. I almost killed him and I didn’t even want to stop. He needed to feel what he did, what he tore from me,” he whispers, revealing what he had kept secret even from his best friend Wally.

“And yet he lives.”

“Because Bruce stepped in, even though he didn’t want to. Bruce stopped me, because we live by a code that divides us from the criminals we fight: The line we do not cross. Justice, not vengeance. And I let him stop me, because that is not who Robin is, who you and I were. Robin is a symbol of hope in the darkness, of laughter and defiance in the face of despair, a friend when you most need one. And I couldn’t allow him to destroy that, too. He took you from us – but I couldn’t allow him to make me betray that memory of you as well, as easy as it would have been. That’s why I stopped; not because I didn’t care, or forgot or you didn’t matter. It was to prove the very opposite.” Dick’s voice gives out, and he blinks away tears he didn’t notice he shed. Even by his standards, that’s the worst and most embarrassing speech he ever held. But it feels good nonetheless, and it’s the truth.

He latches on to his brother, and this time Jason allows it, albeit stiffly.

“I didn't-,“ Jason swallows, and somehow manages to keep his voice even. “You're an idiot.”  
Dick hears him tucking the gun back into the holster, and it feels like a victory, even though Jason’s next sentence doesn’t.

“I’m not Robin anymore, though. I’ve changed.” There’s weight in those words Dick can’t deny and his brother’s readiness with the weapon speaks volumes more.

“I know”, he admits with a tired frown. “I’m not happy about it – but that’s what happens when you live: You change. And I’m glad you got that chance.” Batman wouldn’t approve, but Dick is just glad he finally got through to Jason. “Besides, I’m not the model-citizen I used to be myself.” With a smirk Dick lifts the leg of his dirtied trousers, where Neal’s tracking anklet is blinking furiously and declaring him a current fugitive of state.

The redhead laughs, and Dick realizes just how much he missed that sound.

“Does B know?,” Jason asks between chuckles, no doubt imagining the Caped Crusader’s constipated look at _that_ revelation from his golden boy.

“He was very chalant.” Dick face splits with a wide, playful grin that ought to belong with a mask and a big R.

Jason groans in annoyance and swats good-naturedly for his brother: “God, you’re still butchering our lovely language.”

“Only because I know it bothers you,” Dick teases before sobering down. Behind his brother, a bright light in the sky is approaching fast. A meteor maybe, coming straight towards them. “We’ve got incoming.”

Alarmed, Jason turns around, spotting the object that grows bigger with every second and instantly relaxes again. “Don’t worry, she’s friendly.” With his hands he forms a cone and let’s his voice carry over the roof tops.

“Hey, Star! Over here!”

Now Dick can make out a humanoid figure against the brightness: Female, judging from the curvy silhouette and with a heap of flames trailing behind her, dancing around her head as she comes to a stop a few feet above the two men. The glow diminishes, as she drops out of the sky, landing with feline elegance – right next to Jason, effectively shoving Dick away from his brother. She is towering over both of them, taller by at least a head and exudes the deadly grace of an Amazon, even in casual jeans and cropped shirt. And the lady is not from around here, not with those glowing green eyes, the golden skin and literally fiery, untamable hair – perfect for temperature-themed puns and flat flirtations, but that’d probably end with Dick getting roasted, he, so he keeps any of those to himself for now.

“Are you all right, Jason? Roy and I did worry when you did not return with the sustenance.” There’s a slight accent in her voice, as unplaceable as her home planet.

“Yeah, just got held up a bit. You could have just called, you know?” Jay evades, a tad embarrassed he forgot.

“We did and you did not answer,” the alien accuses, with a scolding frown that looks _dangerous_.

Jason curses and checks for his phone, tucked away and easy to lift in the pockets of his leather jacket. Jason flips up the cover and scrolls through his history of missed calls – And Dick should probably do the same, he realizes. The way he simply left Peter, he expects dozens of calls from the Suits and Mozzie. It's a miracle really their position isn't swarmed with FBI or the Marshals already. He should at least call back – and maybe warn Jay and his lady-friend, just in case. Body armor might not do much against whatever her shtick is.

“My bad.” Jason ruffles through his hair. “Was kind of busy.”

"You're not in danger?"

"Nah." Jason beckons him closer and Dick carefully complies, staying light on his feet because, heck – that alien looks like she is waiting to pummel someone, preferable little acrobats. "Kory, meet my brother."

Apparently those are magic words of a kind, because the alien’s scowl is immediately replaced with an enthusiastic, if slightly apologetic smile. "Oh, Richard it is? I've heard a lot about you." Jason fiercely blushes the color of his hair, which makes those new and startling white strains stand out all the more.

"Call me Dick," he smiles, mimicking her expression partly by professional habit – mostly though because Jason mentioned him, even fondly. "You're not from around here?"

"Princess Koriand'r of Tamaran,” she formally introduces herself. Huh, royalty. His little brother really got around since, well, since he got better and Dick can’t help but feel proud.

"We found her in another one of those messed up Cadmus labs, trapped in a tube like an animal," Jay explains while squeezing Kory’s shoulders in comradery.

"You and Roy?" The name had been mentioned before and Dick wonders if it is one of the Roys he knows in the cape community or someone else entirely.

"Arsenal," Jason clarifies and Dick suppresses a groan. Last time he met the original Speedy, they didn’t part on good terms and he never managed to connect to him like he did with the archer’s clone. Even if he doesn’t like Arsenal’s weaponry and the man’s impulsive attitude at a whole, he does not get to choose his little brother’s friends. Dick really has no right to, especially since they have looked after Jay in his stead.

Dick hugs his brother fiercely, and this time Jason is caught off guard enough to actually let it happen.  
“I’m glad you found friends and a team of your own.”

Jason scowls. “We’re _not_ a team!”

“Sure.” Because Kory’s placating hand on Jay’s shoulder and all their other interactions don’t say team-mate at all.

Neal’s phone starts vibrating with another incoming call, and with a quick glance he checks for the caller ID. The accompanying picture of the infamous mustache usually makes him smile, but now he just groans. The situation has all the markings of a disaster. “Sorry, I better take this.”

 

He hastily walks a few feet across the roof for an illusion of privacy before answering on the third ring:

“Hey, Peter. Listen I-”

“Neal!” The agent is adequately pissed. “You don’t get to run away and ignore my calls. I want an explanation and I’m not in the mood for any of your evasions, white lies and general bull: Short answer. Now.”

Peter is giving him the chance to explain himself – That’s good and slightly surprising. For a second Neal contemplates his answer, just how much he can reveal while keeping his vigilante past out of the spotlight. He decides to keep his answer as vague as possible. “I saw someone from my past. Someone I believed to be dead. Turns out I was wrong.”

“Jason. Old accomplice?” Right, Peter heard him call out for his brother earlier.

“No, actually – Uhm, You don’t have the Marshals listening in right now?” Neal Caffrey’s official file contains no information on his earlier years and he’d like to keep it that way.

“Only Diana and me.” Something clatters in the background and a female voice chimes in: “And your lovely wife. Hey Neal.”

 “El. Sorry I ruined your evening.” Neal likes to think he finally earned Peter’s trust, but it was probably due to the man’s wife he got this chance to explain himself.

“Caffrey, spill it.” Diana sounds like she’d happily kick his ass. If he gets out of this with little more than a slap on the wrist, he might introduce her to the alien he just met. They’d probably get along like a house on fire.

“Right… As you might or might not have known, I was in the foster system for a short while. I got lucky and ended up with surprisingly decent people. Jason is my brother. A couple years ago there was this accident, and he died. At least that’s what we thought at the time and when I saw him today, I couldn’t believe it myself, but it’s really him. We, uh, talked – which the reason I didn’t answer my phone earlier.”

“Uh-huh.” Peter sounds understandably doubtful, even if the story is nothing but the absolute truth.

“You know I never lied to you.”

“No, you just constantly misdirect and omit, whenever it suits you best.”

“In that case I would have filled the blanks with something more plausible; you know I’m a better liar than that.” Neal pauses because this line of argument isn’t exactly helping his point right now. “Look, I never intended to run – give me a minute and I’m back in my radius. Twenty and the location of your choice?”

Peter grunts. “My house and make it fifteen.”

“I can’t fly!” Even by rooftops, that’s cutting it close without his grappling gun.

“I don’t care. Fifteen minutes.” And with that, Peter cuts the line.

 

Dick tucks his phone away and strides back to where his brother is sporting a sardonic grin which means he overheard the whole thing.

“So you traded up from the B-man and got yourself a new, just as demanding boss.”

“Peter isn’t usually like that,” Dick defends the agent. “I deserve worse for leaving him like that. Anyway, you heard the man: I got to run.”

He turns to the gorgeous alien. “Princess Koriand’r – please look after my brother and make sure he doesn’t do anything too stupid.”

“Don’t worry.” Kory laughs and the ways her eyes crinkle says she knows exactly what kind of things Jason is up to, which isn’t exactly reassuring.

“Else I’ll have to track him and you guys down and make your life miserable. He is my brother but that doesn’t exempt him from the law and also doesn’t mean I won’t kick his ass if we cross path in costumes.”

“I’m standing right here!,” Jay protests.

“Good; means you heard me.” He gives his brother another hug – has to make up for the lack of those in the past years – and slips him one of his burner phones. “Don’t just leave, okay? Call me. Promise? Also, my landlady owns a mansion with excellent coffee and liquor, if you need a place to crash.”

Jason huffs. “Fine. Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Right, clock is ticking.

“I could give you a lift,” Koriand’r offers.

“Really? Thanks, that’d be awesome!”

Before separating from his not-so-little-anymore brother, Dick leans back in and quickly whispers: “Red-Head Redemption. In case you haven’t decided on a team name yet.” With a laugh, he reaches up and gently ruffles Jay’s hair: “Take care, okay? I love you, so don’t you ever die on me again, little wing.”

Kory’s arms wrap around his chest and she takes off with him into the night sky. Her skin is just shy of searing hot and still Dick leans into what feels like corporeal rays of sunshine. It helps in shaking the dreamlike sensation of surrealism that clung to him since he first spotted his brother on the other side of the street. But the alien warrior carrying him is real. And so is his brother.

Jay is alive and Dick trembles with relief, comforted by foreign arms.

 


	5. An Agent's Most Trusted Tool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter awakens to an unpleasant scene...

When Peter thinks of the people he’d most like to wake up next to when kidnapped, he thinks of: No one. Because one, that’s not a thought he likes to entertain and two, he doesn’t want to put anyone else into the position of sharing his misery or possibly getting hurt.

On a purely professional level, he’d probably choose Diana: His fellow agent is technically his subordinate, but Peter wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of her gun or fist. She is smart, determined, tough, great at undercover work and beautiful enough any kidnappers could make the fatal mistake of underestimating her or misinterpreting their relationship.

Second would be Jones: The Ex-Marine has been reliably at his back for years and they’ve worked together long enough they don’t have to talk or coordinate their actions. Like Diana, Clinton is a force to be reckoned with, both efficient and capable.

Who Peter has never wanted to wake up to is Neal Caffrey. While he rationally knows Neal has his share of experience with kidnappings and is able to stand his own against his former criminal competition, Peter's heart feels differently: The Neal he learned to call friend is all smiles, charm and wit. He is playful innocence, fun and games and talk, and has an ideology inherently opposed to violence. Neal - and Peter doesn’t dare let the ex-con know - is like a son to him. And all of these are qualities that put his CI way down on the list of people Peter would want to wake up next to, second only to El.

 

The universe however doesn't give a damn about his wishes, as the agent should already know.

This wisdom gets shoved in his face once again, when he finds himself groggily drifting back into consciousness; his hands resting in cold cuffs tied somewhere behind his back and possibly to the equally cold chair he is sitting on, with a vile, stale taste in his mouth and a throbbing headache.

Peter takes stock of his own state: While he is feeling unwell, none of his bones appear broken - good. The familiar weight of his service weapon is missing from his shoulder holster - really not good. He squints at his painfully bright surroundings, which appears to be the interior of an abandoned office, warehouse or the likes - not good either. So, how did he get here?

Peter racks his memory to recall him and Neal meeting up with a possible source who had claimed to have information on a pyramid scheme his boss was trying to enact but the source had supposedly been too afraid of stopping by the Bureau in person. They had made arrangements to meet in a pub instead. He and Neal had ordered a drink as part of their cover - and that's it, next thing he knew, Peter woke up chained to a chair. He can only assume his drink had been spiked and he groans in frustration for not having noticed the trap before it had been too late.

His small sound provokes a reaction in the form of rustling fabrics and footsteps from somewhere behind him, coming closer.

“Wakey, wakey,” someone croons, a male voice with an acrid edge of sadism - no doubt his captor. Peter turns towards the sound and opens him eyes again. The brightness hurts just a tiny bit less than during his first try and Peter swallows hard to reign in suddenly rising nausea. Bile burns in his throat and he coughs in its aftermath, tasting resurfaced remnants of the spiked soda. Peter rinses with his own saliva, but what he wouldn't give for some water...

First things first, though. He tries to get a look at whoever has the balls or lack of brains to abduct a federal officer. He only can spot a vaguely human shadow out of the corner of his eyes and is unable to turn around further. His hands, in confirmation of his initial guess, are cuffed together, and bound underneath the seat of the not exactly ergonomic chair he is situated on. Metal, not wood and sadly too durable to break as Peter learns with a vigorous tug at his restrains.

"I wouldn't try that if I were you." The voice is definitely familiar, not only because it belongs to their mystery source.

Peter turns the other way, still trying to establish visual contact. Instead, he finds Neal on a chair just like the one he is on, still unconscious. Some of his curls have fallen into his CI's face and they sway in reassuringly regular intervals, the rest of his hair still perfectly in place. Next to the con, Peter must looks like something chewed on and spit out again. Annoyed as he would usually feel at the man’s preened appearance, the sight instead fills Peter with relief; apparently, Neal is fine and hasn't been treated too roughly. - Which isn't to say that's not still on the menu.

If he wants to stay ahead of this situation, Peter needs information. Since his gun and, he confirms with a subtle shift, his wallet have been taken, there is no reason to be subtle about his identity.

"I'm Special Agent Peter Burke with the FBI," he declares. "You wouldn't want -”

"Oh, I'm well aware who you are," his captor snarls. "And that's exactly why you're here."

The man stalks closer and finally into view. Peter recognizes him immediately: The guy is still wearing the same shirt with the bar’s logo on its chest than when he served them their drinks earlier, possibly only posing as a waiter. Neal would surely take that as impetus to lecture him later how it was basically child's play to get close to your mark if only you wore some kind of uniform, not that Peter doesn't know that already. He had used that psychological trick during his own undercover stings aplenty - and still gotten blindsided by it. Looking beneath the easily dismissible appearance of a waiter however, Peter actually recognizes the man. At least, he had seen his pictures in a file only recently.

"Mr. Mayer," he acknowledges calmly. "You are aware unlawful detention is a crime?"

Peter can imagine where this is heading: They arrested Mayer's younger brother last week, on grounds of acquiring and selling stolen goods. The fence had only been their stepping stone in getting to the lady who had stolen a few hundred thousand dollars in art from a private gallery. It had predictably, and Peter can't help feeling proud at that notion, lead to the successful arrest of the two felons - which apparently Mr. Mayer senior now had objections to voice against.

"I need you to let Danny go," the man demands and produces a weapon from his jacket. Peter recognizes it as his own gun, pointed leisurely at him. The agent feels his pulse rise, but at the same time deadly calm falls over him, the sort that comes hand in hand with hyperawareness.

"I'm afraid that is not something I can make happen," he carefully objects, looking for a way out. The room is bare without potential cover, the chair heavy and immobile. He has to hope his team notices something is wrong and comes to his rescue, or El... Peter takes a deep breath. He can't think of his wife now, not yet.

The gun gets cocked more insistently. "Can't or won't? If I were you, I'd think very careful about what to say next."

Peter lifts his head, angling his neck uncomfortably until he can meet Mayer's eyes. "Both - The case is already closed and out of my hands."

"You're a special agent, right? Just reopen it."

"I-" Peter swallows and pauses to think. Ignoring the fact that he isn't willing to compromise his morals and give a criminal the slip, that's really not something he can just do on the fly, not without navigating a whole lot of paperwork and weeks of procedure. But what to say? Admit he will be useless to his abductor? Peter doesn't know what kind of man Jacob Mayer is but if drugging and kidnapping are on the menu, he might not hesitate to pull the trigger and end another's life. He certainly won't just let the two of them leave...

The silence stretches, almost reaching that point where not answering is as bad as saying the wrong thing.

And then Neal, who Peter had still thought unconscious, snorts and chuckles.

 

Peter groans and silently curses, really wishing the man had stayed unresponsive a while longer. But no, Neal never does what he needs him to do; he actually has a knack for the very opposite. Case in point: His great tactic of going ahead and mocking the maniac with a gun and itchy trigger finger.

“You know that’s not how the system works, right?” Neal asks, with barely supressed laughter crinkling in his eyes.

Mayer's temper rises at the challenge – as does Peter’s blood pressure - and he lowers the gun momentarily, only to storm over and aim it at Neal’s head in fury, instead.

The con pretends he doesn’t even notice the cold steel pressed to his temple.

“Trust me, I should know.” He wiggles his bound foot in show, the one strikingly bare of an anklet. - The anklet! Peter takes heart again. The moment Mayer cut it, an alert went out. That means he has a team currently working on getting his location and coming after them. Until then, Peter needs to buy more time - and make sure Neal doesn't get himself shot before their backup shows up.

Peter tries to share his half-baked idea of a plan with his partner, but stops when his cuffs betray what was supposed to be a secret communication with a jingle. But the way Neal’s eyes find his own, they might be on the same page already. Either that or Neal has a plan of his own and both Peter can work with.

"You might not want to shoot me just yet," Neal doesn’t miss a beat and keeps on talking, undeterred by the threat to his life. "And maybe ignore Petey there for a moment. He can't help himself, boring pencil pusher that he is. Can't think out of the box to safe his life." Neal grins. "But that's what he has me for."

Peter refrains from sending Neal a sharp look - he knows better than to get worked up over whatever kind of plan Neal is pursuing. Any pitch his partner can throw will buy them more time and if Peter has to play the unimaginative stickler for rules that's a small price to pay for freedom - and, once they get free, he can still prove those allegations wrong, just for the heck of it.

Therefore instead of protesting, Peter makes the most of his kidnapper's distraction: While Neal holds the man's attention, the agent works to get out of his cuffs. He pulls and squeezes, wiggling free ever so minutely.

"So, trust me when I tell you: You don't want him to reopen the case. That will take ages and really only serve to reaffirm your brother's guilt - I'm not judging. What you want to do instead," Neal pauses dramatically and lowers his voice to a conspiratorially whisper, "is get rid of the evidence."

Mayer considers that for a moment and hums in thought. "Without evidence the case against my brother will have to be dropped."

Neal beams a bright smile. "That's right. It's kept in the evidence lookup of the FBI building. Hard to get to get into, but an agent or, say, a skilled thief with access to the building could just... waltz in."

"What he said true?," Mayer asks and turns his attention back on Peter, who freezes, stopping in his efforts to get free.

Peter nods slowly. It's not a bad offer: If they really were to cooperate, the chances of Mayer getting what he wants are high enough he might take the bait. At the same time, it gives one of them a chance to contact the team and if nothing else comes of it, it is still a valid attempt at stalling the gunman.

"It is," he admits with fake hesitancy.

“So you can walk right into the FBI and take care of that for me.”

Peter feels his heart harden. It would be an easy out, but he can't take it: No way is he leaving Neal behind at the mercy of this maniac and negotiations can't be over just yet. Also, he still has a role to play - not that he needs much acting for it.

His answer is simple. “No.”

Mayer bares his teeth in frustrated warning: “I wasn’t asking nicely: Either that, or your pet-criminal gets to eat a bullet.”

Neal gives Mayer a wide-eyed look, managing to look insulted at the same time.

“ _Reformed_ criminal,” Neal huffs under his breath. “And I’m no one’s pet!”

“Or maybe he’d like to have a say in this as well.” Mayer pulls Neal’s hair, forcing the CI to look up at him. “You get the same offer.”

Neal actually seems to contemplate the deal and Peter isn't sure the dread he feels is entirely faked.

“Say I do this…”, the CI starts hesitantly, not meeting Peter's gaze, guilt painted plain about his features. “I need you reassurance. I get to disappear. And you'll let the agent walk.”

Peter can only stare in bewilderment: He knows Neal is an excellent liar and faking sincerity his strongest suit. Heck, if not for becoming a career criminal the man would have made a great actor, looks and all. But this...This still _is_ an act, right? With Neal, that's sometimes hard to tell and he couldn't fault the con for wanting to shed his anklet for good.

Not a line of thought Peter can allow himself to pursue right now. No, he has to trust his partner and should instead worry about what he will do once Neal is out the line of fire. Because that's where things will really get tricky. Peter isn't naive enough to honestly think Mayer will just let them go afterwards, confident they’ll just forget about his stunt and let him escape justice.

“You bring me the evidence, you get the agent,” Mayer agrees magnanimously. Despite the man's word, Peter has no illusions Mayer will actually hold up this bargain. No, without new factors in the game, without help from the outside, the only way this negotiation can end is with a bullet for their troubles and an express journey to the bottom of the Hudson for the both of them.

Neal isn't stupid enough to hope for a different outcome, Peter is sure, but danger had never deterred the man before.

Sadness followed by a harsh look flits across Neal’s features and he turns towards Peter, suspiciously avoiding eye contact.

“Sorry,” his CI mumbles. “It’s for your own good.”

Then he locks eyes with Mayer again.

“You’ll get the evidence – and because I’m generous, I’ll even put something on top.”

 

The pause is almost imperceptible, but suddenly Neal has his hands free, disarming Mayer in one smooth motion. Before Peter can process what just happened, the gun is in Neal’s hands instead and trained at Mayer.

"FBI, freeze," Neal orders tongue in cheek, adding a muttered: "I've _always_ wanted to say that."

The would-be kidnapper gapes in utter shock at his empty hands, cuffed-together in front of him with the restraints that Peter could have sworn were still around Neal's hands a moment ago. Peter smiles proudly: He shouldn't have underestimated the swift-handed escape artist extraordinaire his partner is, and neither should have Mayer.

Neal flexes and works the tension out of his neck with a roll of his shoulders. “Friendly advice, as promised free of charge: If you have a firearm, never give up the advantage of a ranged weapon, unless you were trained otherwise. Oh, and learn some decent restraints and maybe _not_ buy your handcuffs off eBay next time," he has the audacity to lecture flippantly, before he slices the tape at his legs with a small blade Peter didn't even know his CI carried, stands up and smooths the wrinkles out of his suit.

Mayer steps back in fright, but before the man can make up his mind whether to flee or fight or just stand there in shock, Neal hooks a leg behind their abductor's ankle and brings him to fall. With an undignified squawk Mayer lands on his bottom and eyes the gun pointed at him with none of the bravado he showed waving it around earlier.

"You have the right to sit your sorry ass right down and think about what you’ve done," Neal growls.

Keeping a watchful eye on their would-be kidnapper, his CI kneels down next to Peter and starts picking the restrains. Peter identifies the item he uses as one of Neal's cufflinks; apparently they are custom made, with their collapsible and, if the glint reflecting off it is anything to go by, sharp pole system. Peter appreciates Neal's toys, but will have to keep an eye out for more of the sort: He really shouldn't approve of his CI walking around with stuff like that. In fact, he's pretty sure that is in violation of Neal's parole deal - but Peter isn't that petty, not after Neal just used his secret trump to get them out of a pickle.

Neal hands him his gun back - pushes it on him, really - and huffs.  

“Amateur. I think he’ll get that family reunion he wanted sooner than bargained for.”

Peter can't help but agree with that assessment.


End file.
